


Tis the Season (The Fa La La La La Remix)

by romanticalgirl



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas-time, Theo.  It’s a time of miracles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tis the Season (The Fa La La La La Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 5-24-04
> 
> Remix of "Tis the Season" by Amy (which is not yet on AO3 or her LJ/DW)

The ride from Santa Monica seemed long, but it involved leaving Santa Monica, so it wasn’t so bad. You had to stop at a convenience store that was anything but convenient and pick up a few things, wrapping them with infinite care that seemed contrary to your more low-key approach to things, but some things, you’d always thought, needed to be done with care.

The presents were in a bag that you’d found in the back of the van. It might have once held groceries or herbs or music or chains, but you couldn’t remember anymore. Instead, it was just a bag, full of Christmas cheer.

Your family never celebrated Christmas really, but you remembered a gift or two on odd mornings that might have been Christmas. The stuff that really mattered came the rest of the year and you only remembered two gifts that fell in December that meant anything. Your guitar, which you’d explicitly picked out and posted a picture of on the refrigerator including store, hours of operation and which clerk to talk to written in the corner of the ad. You hadn’t expected it though, given the cost and the noise, but your parents shelled out and it had been cool.

The other was your watch, which fell into the same category of cost, but certainly not noise. You’d never mentioned it except once when you’d talked about losing your old one, but it was there beside your bed one morning. You remembered saying thanks and you remembered it not mattering much more after that.

But you’d have felt funny not bringing gifts, especially since the sky was pitch black and there were demons everywhere. You thought that maybe it would be good to bring a little bit of Christmas cheer, or Christmas past, or something, rather than just showing up on a doorstep and announcing your presence.

Cordelia’s place was empty and the hotel seemed abandoned. You picked up the phone book and paged through it idly, a common practice for you. You’d found some good people by letting your fingers do the walking, so it doesn’t surprise you at all to find a name you recognize there, even though, when it comes down to it, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea Wesley’s ever had.

Name and address all right there in black and white. You shook your head. Covert had never actually been his strong point.

**

The door, when it opened, allowed the strong stench of alcohol to waft out on the air, drifting from the room and from Wesley. He looked different, rugged and ragged and weak all at once. It was a new look, one that wasn’t suits and ties and proper British stick up his ass. You ran a hand through your hair – blue in honor of Willow’s Jewishness – and sort of smiled. “Um…hey.”

Wesley’s eyes had widened and he attempted to clean himself up, straighten himself or find some sense of dignity or reserve or something. He noticed the alcohol stain about the same time you did and dropped his hand. “Come. Come in.”

You apologized and gave a brief rundown of why you were where you were, mentioned the apocalypse happening outside in your typical offhand manner. Mentioned the wolf. Always mentioned the wolf.

“Having never faced a true apocalypse before, I really can’t say.”

The normal chains then. Good. You had them in your van. Never left home without them. You almost smiled. He laughed, more than he should, his hand covering his mouth as he realized what he smelled like. Single-malt. Good stuff.

He didn’t notice the bag or the fact that it was full of bright, shiny paper. You brought it up, simply because your arm was getting tired. They’d appreciate the gifts after you were gone. You were always a good and thrifty shopper.

“Where are you living currently?”

Devon’s house. The van. You shuddered a bit. Santa Monica.

“You’ll stay here tonight then.” He nodded, like a grand decision was made. “You’ll have the bed.”

You started to protest, because that’s how it’s done. You knew he’d argue, because that’s also how it’s done and, if nothing else, he was still British. Is always British. You protested a little more, following protocol or manners or whatever, giving him an out. He surprised you a little then, laughing, though there wasn’t anything funny at all.

“I am entirely too drunk to have an argument based on coherent reasoning.”

As if coherency has ever played a part in anything in your life. You dated Willow, queen of the ramblers who then decided to be gay. You hung out with rock bands and became a werewolf three nights a month. “Yeah. Not big on that coherency thing.”

He smiled and swayed a bit, drunker than he probably thought he was. He swept his arm back in a grand gesture then returned it to the dark spot on his jeans. Jeans. Huh. “Tis the season, hmm?”

He glanced at the lights and the stocking, his face darkening, hardening. Xander had been right on the whole father issue thing, you thought, but then Xander would know. Xander had always known more than you ever gave him credit for. You think about calling him, telling him, but Xander was a lifetime ago.

“You like Christmas?”

You knew the answer before he said anything, but were still surprised that he said anything at all. Your stomach started to growl, but the stench of alcohol was bothering you more. You asked what happened, obliquely, like always and he answered honestly, forgetting that your senses could probably break it down into year of distillation if you knew anything at all about scotch.

“…Some wine, a bad year. A six-pack Lilah left.”

“Lilah?” Huh. You always expected Wesley would swing the other way. Lilah sounded…like a hell of a lot more than he could handle.

“You don’t want to know.”

You did, oddly enough, but that might have had more to do with the fact that the sexual stench of the room almost overpowered the scotch. Instead, you asked for a beer. You asked for several, actually and the two of you killed the six-pack in short order. Heat pooled with the decent booze in your system and you tilted your head, looking at him cock-eyed. You smiled at the thought. “Not midnight. Not New Year’s.” Wesley nodded. So you kissed him.

He broke away after a bit, after leaving the taste of scotch and beer and bitterness in your mouth. “It’s not New Year’s. Or midnight.”

“How about that.”

He mumbled and slid back toward you and you were kissing again, his tongue moving over yours hungrily. It was deep and hard and there were hands and they felt good. You could feel the desperation in the room, could taste it in his mouth, on his skin. You really didn’t care though, because your cock was hard.

“I may well be drunk.”

You look up from the stubble you’d been nipping at. “That’s bad?”

He reached for your jeans and fumbled a bit getting them open. You’d have cared, but it felt too good, the pressure of his fingers against your cock, rubbing the denim against your boxers. His hand hit just the right spot and you kissed him again to hide the groan. Who had known Wesley’s wasn’t the only desperation in the room?

He started to pull your pants off but you were too quick, too fast at reaching for his. You didn’t fumble or mess around, and he was half naked before he could even open his mouth to protest.

You’d been sitting on the floor but now you were kneeling in front of him, staring him in the eye as you slid your hand up and down his cock, fingers callused from playing sliding over the slick tip until his head rolled back and he sank down onto the floor.

He moaned.

You liked it.

So then you bent down and leaned over him, replacing your hands with your mouth and tasting him, exploring the curves and contours of his cock, feeling the pulse of arousal against your tongue. He kept getting harder, which got you harder and you pushed a hand down to your own cock and stroked yourself just enough to make it really hurt before bringing the same hand up to his cock and stroking him.

Your tongue swirled around the head then you really started sucking, meeting his thrusts and moans with your own, reverberations from your mouth making him writhe beneath you beneath you. Your cock went beyond hurting and you stroked him harder, faster and cupped your free hand around his balls, barely staying balanced, just a hint of pressure on his perineum and then he was coming hot and hard and fast in your mouth.

You kept sucking and swallowing, your mouth massaging his flesh the way Willow’s used to move over yours. He was practically twitching off the floor, sensation overload and you waited to hear him beg before you pulled back and licked you lips.

“Like riding a bike.” You grinned wolfishly. “Merry Christmas, Wes.”

“Happy Christmas.”

You could see the question in his eyes shadowed by something like peace. You’d been looking for something like it since your cousin had first bitten you. You shook your head and leaned back against the chair, letting him watch you. For the moment, you truly believed in peace on earth.

You’d answer his question later and let him show you the goodwill toward men.


End file.
